I love how a trace of rain transforms a garden, even one that is already doing very well. I see the same in the neighbors and in myself. Our greens are more vivid and intense in the charged atmosphere; our purples and reds draw notice from the hummingbirds.
I wonder now if, in all my years of writing, I have ever used the word aura. I think not. But it may well be that in this connection I should.
A row of poems, still tender, just beginning to climb.
Someone weeping for joy in the night.
flees into my memory
Poems, Slightly Used, May 5, 2009
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